“You won’t do anything so crazy,” he retorted quietly. “You’ll find a nice girl, not like Miss Mer—I mean my aunt, but like your own ideal, and you’ll marry her and settle down happily with her, and she’ll write your articles for you and save the public from much inferior literature. And my aunt will settle down comfortably at Creux, with the boy and her husband—”
Before he could get any further with his harangue, however, the door of the room was violently slammed, and he found himself alone.
The next morning was cold and cheerless, and when Bayre met the lady at the station they both looked rather blue. Southerley had been forbidden by his friend to put in an appearance, but he insisted on sending some chocolates for her refreshment during the journey, in spite of Bayre’s threat that he would represent them to be his own present.
The two travellers did very little talking, and Bayre could see the lady’s handkerchief go furtively up to her eyes now and then, and he wondered what the thoughts were that brought the tears.
As soon as they landed at St Luke’s they got a boat to take them across to Creux, and on the way they learned that the popular notion was that old Monsieur Bayre was not long for this world, and that he was dying as he had lived, an eccentric recluse, refusing to see doctor or clergyman, and morose to the last.
The boatman who told them all this did not recognise the lady, who sat heavily veiled and simply dressed in black in the stern of the boat, and who said nothing whatever while the short voyage lasted.
But as Bayre helped her up the steep cliff path she whispered to him, in a quavering voice,—
“I’m afraid; oh, I’m so dreadfully afraid!”
“Afraid of what?” said he, cheerily.
But she drew a deep breath and only faltered,—